The Odyssey Of Flight 19
by Spartan-168-Django
Summary: Against her better judgment, the Dragon Queen dares to go flying over the haunted ruins of Old Valyria, and there encounters a bizarre and terrifying turn of events that sees her taken to a separate PLANE of existence. So please fasten your seat belts, sit back, relax, and enjoy the FRIGHT!
1. Welcome Aboard

_**Writer's Notes:** look! Up in the sky! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's yet another GoT themed work! As if there weren't enough on this damn website already! Although, as we shall see, here's an idea that hopefully proves fresh and original as we take familiar folks and transplant them in, ahem, a separate PLANE of existence. So please make sure your seat back is in the upright position, your tray table stowed away, your seat belts fastened, and sit back, relax, and enjoy the FRIGHT.  
_

* * *

 **Part I**

 **Welcome Aboard**

Daenerys gasped as she jolted forwards, though something pressing against her chest and waist was holding her back. Her heart was racing and her head spinning. Her neck was tight, like there was a noose hanging around it.

Her mind had gone blank, and she squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. The last thing she could remember was... was... yes, she could recall now. The armada had left what was once known as Slaver's Bay, now proudly renamed the Bay Of Dragons at her command. They were making full haste for the Seven Kingdoms, with a favorable wind, and an army the likes of which the Realm must not have seen since the days of the Conquest. It was under these conditions that she had decided to take a ride on the back of Drogon, to soar in the air so that her followers may behold their new Queen, the Unburnt, the Breaker Of Chains, and now, soon enough, the Queen On The Iron Throne.

On their way, of course, they would have to round the southern tip of Old Valyria. The great homeland of her forefathers, once the center of this world. Dany, like every other learned person in the known world, had grown up with the tales of the glory and ultimate tragedy to have befallen her ancestral homeland. And she also knew very well that it was oft said that The Doom still reigned in Old Valyria, ever defying and punishing all those who dared come before her shores seeking glory and conquest.

Once, one dragonlord by the name of Aurion, who had survived the Doom as he ruled over Qohor, had decided to raise a host and fly south to reclaim the glory of the old capital. Neither he nor any of his loyal retainers were ever seen nor heard from again. Likewise, much later, the Volantenes as well had tried to carve out a claim for themselves among the glories of old, only for the entire fleet to disappear. And to this day, even the most hardened and able-bodied of sailors dreaded to ever come within sight of that accursed land. And then, the Halfman had come to her and told her again of his uncle, Lord Gerion, who also had set out for that land in search of House Lannisters' sacred Valyrian Steel sword, again only to disappear with 'nary a trace.

In retrospect, all these things considered, perhaps it was indeed a foolish thing for the aspiring Young Queen to attempt a flyover of her ancient homeland. Perhaps... well, until that point, she was enjoying an unbroken stream of conquest: she had liberated Slaver's Bay, broken chains, usurped the power of the Old Masters, retaken the Khalassar that once rightfully belonged to her Sun And Star (with Fire And Blood, of course), and now all she had left was an easy conquest of a land, so she was told, was divided with half the Realm under a mad queen, and the support of at least two of the Seven Kingdoms at her back. Perhaps it was the expected ease of her inevitable victory looming on the horizon that had led her towards inviting a different challenge altogether. Perhaps this is what happens when you put someone of her age in command of such power. Or perhaps, who knows, there was no fault on her part, for there was something within the very land itself that corrupted all minds that came too close to it.

Whatever the case may have been, she had egged Drogon onwards, towards the setting sun glowing fiercely red in the dust and ash of the Fourteen Flames, forgetting for a moment all the lessons she had learnt.

At first, all had proceeded as normal - almost a little boring even. The seas below her looked as any other sea she had ever sailed upon before. When Drogon had at long last breached the shorelines, Dany had noted their unique shape and forms, dramatic spires of black stone and jagged cliffs against which the waves broke. But even these did not look too much out of the ordinary. She pushed Drogon onwards, and he had obliged to her will, maybe even a little more easily than was usual.

And that was when the green thunderstorm had blown up, appearing suddenly, out of nowhere.

Drogon hesitated for a split second, and she could sense there and then, through that ancient and unbreakable empathic bond that Valyrians shared with their noble mounts, that something had... scared him.

She calmed Drogon, and decided to land somewhere so that they may rest and wait out the storm. Very soon, they found themselves swallowed up in a squall, arcs of green lightning coming out all around them, the wind howling and raging around them. Black hailstones pelted dragon and rider both, hurting them; Dany was thrown back and forth violently, Drogon's scales below her cutting her below while above she was struck and bruised badly. And above it all, she thought for a moment she could hear screaming - the collective howling anguish and sorrow of the millions who had lost their lives here so long ago, now cursed to haunt this land forever after.

The next thing she knew, something had spooked Drogon so badly that he had, against her direction, pulled a sharp turn she had not thought him capable of before; so violent and sudden was the motion that Dany was thrown clear off his back and plummeted through the air towards her certain death on the jagged land below.

And then, just as she thought she was about to hit the ground, she found herself here. But, as she was about to find out, she had just crawled out of one nightmare, and was about to find herself in another.

Still breathing hard, she tried to get a grip of her surroundings. This was... strange. A second ago she was plunging through the air, and a moment before that, perched on Drogon's back. Now, she was sitting in a smooth and clean leather-bound chair, inside what she could only describe, at that moment, the most _bizarre_ room she had ever had the fortune (or lack thereof) to find herself within. She had seen strange places before no doubt, in her visions granted her in the House Of The Undying. But whereas at least those locations were grounded somewhat in something she knew or had heard about before, the surroundings that now confronted her on all sides were downright alien to anything she had ever beheld before.

The room was tiny, and the wall that she was facing was curved, with a large window stretching across it, broken up into several panes of glass. Outside, it was nighttime, as she beheld the myriad stars, twinkling in the deep blue and purple skies above, and below them, the clouds gently swirling and... she stopped.

 _The clouds were below her_.

Could she be _dreaming_? Aye, that must be it! Otherwise, where else could she possibly be? Atop a mountain, or just an incredibly tall tower that stretched up into the sky, some wondrous remnant of her people long lost and forgotten about and yet still standing, years after the Doom?

The next item that caught her view was the large desk-like panel right below the window, in front of her. It was covered in an endless array of tiny buttons, knobs, and little glowing glass vials with numbers and pointing arrows. Dany squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could and opened them again to make sure she wasn't dreaming or imagining any of this. There were tiny lights everywhere, like candles, and yet giving off more light whilst giving off no flame nor heat nor any thin wisps of smoke that she could smell. And there were labels everywhere, covering everything, written in what appeared to be the Common Tongue, but in words she could not understand nor comprehend. One of the glass vials confronting her displayed what looked like a round globe right behind it, the top half of it blue, the bottom half of it brown, and a thin white cross-shape in the middle of it, and little numbers and lines around the edges of it.

Jutting up right in front of her, coming up between her legs, was a weird three-pronged stick - kind of like a trident, but with smooth rounded points instead of sharp ones, and crafted out of some strange black material that felt a little like highly polished wood. Right now, both of her hands were clutching tightly either side of it.

Finally, as she could finally hear again and clear her mind from the ringing and screaming in her ears, she noted that there was a loud drowling sound filling the room, like a dragon breathing but constantly, and the source of which she knew not, and certainly regarded the answer to that question with both awe and dread.

All of this she beheld in two, maybe three seconds. Because just afterwards, she quickly learned that she was not alone.

"Woah, what the hell?" remarked a voice to her right, no doubt in response to her sudden outburst. It sounded familiar.

Dany turned to see to whom it belonged to. Sitting next to her, in a seat and position just like hers, was... _Ser Jorah_? And out of the corner of her eye, she saw there was a third person, sitting just behind the Bear Knight, one who looked like... _Daario?_ And both were staring back at her.

"Captain, are you alright?" spoke the knight.

Dany took a good look at the man, and blinked in disbelief. "Jorah" looked as he did last she had seen him except... not quite at the same time. He was still that bulky, swarthy, barrel-chested knight who had first presented himself before her and her brother in Pentos all those long years back, encroaching on fifty, with a furrowed brow. But now he was mostly clean-shaven 'cept for the large bushy mustache, and he had a full head of shortly-cut but cleanly slicked-back hair. Indeed, were it not for that face she had come to know closely over all these times, she would not have known it was he.

And the clothing too was pecular. Dany might have traveled the length of the East, from the Free Cities, across to Qarth, but Ser Jorah's vestiments surprised her if for no other reason than just how plain and to-the-point it looked. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, impeccably white and clean-pressed, with a stiff collar and a smooth silklike black strip of cloth that ran from his neck down to his belly, culminating in a pointed arrow shape. Each of his shoulders was adorned with a small black board criss-crossed with three gold-bands - a simple but poignant indication of some kind of rank, no doubt. Like her, Jorah was also sitting in a smooth leather chair facing towards the window, his feet stretched out and resting on what looked like two pedals, like those you might find in a smith's shop, and his hands gripped tightly on a second trident-shape. He was also wearing a strange black tiara on his head, that covered his ears, and, attached to it, a small black cord that ran down to somewhere outside of Dany's field of vision.

As to Daario, the Tyroshi sellsword too was enclothed in similarly-foreign vestiments to Ser Jorah. Gone were the distinctive blue curls of his hair, the three-prongs of his beard, and the gold-tipped whiskers; like Ser Jorah, these all were cut down such that his hair was now short, almost to the scalp, and combed cleanly, and all that remained of his facial hair was a healthy growth of stubble. Only his face remained the same, and even there, she could see it in his blue eyes that the Stormcrow Captain's fierce bravado was a little more reserved that what she had come to know. He was sitting just behind the knight, but facing away from her; he didn't have a trident like either of them, but he did appear to be engaged in some kind of work at a desk full of blinking little lights before the commotion had pulled his attention away from it.

There was no other person in the room with them. Which was why she was completely startled when there came a fourth voice, loudly, as if the speaker were talking with his mouth pressed right up against both ears at the same time.

" _Tower to Dragon One Niner_ ," croaked the voice, accompanied by a hissing sound, before it repeated its strange incantation, " _I repeat: tower to Dragon One Niner. Something to report? Over._ "

Dany realized she was wearing the same magical tiara on her head as Jorah was, and that this must have been the source of the voice. Abruptly, she yanked it off her head, and threw it. She then tried to get up from her seat, though the thick, grey belt across her waist kept her down. She pushed herself up harder, struggling to free herself. As she did so, she also pushed her trident forwards.

"Captain, what the hell?!" blurted Not-Jorah. Though she was trying to free herself from her chair's captivity, she did notice out of the corner of her eye that Jorah's own trident was also moving forward, in concert with hers. Jorah, acting quickly, tightened his grip on the object, his strong arms bulging visibly, and held it steady, even against Dany's own thrashing about.

All of her distress and shock at everything - the fall before and now this strange new world - it was now coming back to haunt Dany. In her surprise and panic, she stamped and pressed her feet down, not realizing that she too had a pair of foot-pedals in front of her.

"Captain! The rudder!" barked Jorah, furiously, "the _rudder_ , dammit! What's gotten into you?!" Jorah's legs visibly stiffened as he kept his feet solid and locked on his own pedals.

"Hey! Easy, easy, Cap!" added Not-Daario, getting up from his seat. "Calm down!" As he did so, Dany noticed that he pressed a red button on the buckle on his waist; the belt came apart, allowing Daario to stand up without hindrance. Dany looked down and saw the same on her seat as well. Instinctively, she pushed it; immediately, the tight restraints released her, and she stood up.

Half-running, half-stumbling, she crawled out of her chair, pushed right past Daario, surprising him, and then bolted towards the door at the rear of their tiny room. It was a door unlike any she had seen before, but it had a recognizable handle, which she turned and threw open, and then rushed out through it.

The next room was just as strange as the one she had just stumbled out of. The ceiling was curved, and visibly ribbed, and there was a dim but pink lighting that bathed the entire place, with those same little flameless candles set into the ceiling. Dany shivered; it felt like she was standing inside the belly of an enormous dragon, the droning sound around her very much like one, long, unbroken breath. The hall stretched back away from her for some fifty feet, perhaps, before culminating in the top of what looked to be a spiral stairwell, reaching down deeper and deeper into the dragon's gut. The room was packed and crowded, with only a narrow strip of floorspace down the middle of it clear. To the left and right of it, there were rows upon rows of large armchairs.

And there were people filling each and every one of those chairs, people dressed in all manner of strange clothing. Most of them look relaxed or asleep or just too preoccupied in whatever they were doing, but several did look up and notice Dany in her frightened state. She looked to her right and gasped as she saw a brightly shining moving portrait on the wall; it depicted what was clearly a map, blue for the sea and green for land, and a small white dragon-like shape, its wings visibly outstretched, slowly lumbering its way across the map, depositing a thin white line behind it, like a spider spinning a lone strand of silk.

To her left, there was another small door, like the one she had just come out of, leading to what looked to be a closet; a sign on the front of it shown a simple drawing of a man and woman, a straight dividing line between them, and a little green label read, clearly in Common Tongue, the word "VACANT". She knew there and then that it promised her the only privacy she would find inside this strange locale. She threw herself against it... and promptly banged her head against it when it refused to budge. She found time to curse her own stupidity as she remembered to find the handle, open it, and then closed and locked it behind her once she was inside.

It was a latrine of some sort, the cramped space illuminated by yet another of those small upside-down candles set into the ceiling right above her head. There was a chamberpot jutting out of the wall, made from shining steel. Without thinking any further, she knelt down before this little throne she had found for herself, and threw up; the contents of her stomach came rushing out like a torrent, fueled by her sudden lightness in the head and the strange sensations that come from feeling in a body that is yours and yet is not at the same time. Whether it was more from shock or the new bump on her head, or perhaps something else about this bizarre and monstrous place she was in, she did not feel well at all.

She must have been there for Gods-know-how-long, before, head still swimming, she slowly stumbled back to her feet. Beside the privy was a shimmering steel washbasin, a large square mirror affixed above it. She took a good, long look.

The woman who looked back at her was... well, it was her, and yet it wasn't at the same time, if that description made any sense (but then again, what in the last few minutes had?). She was older, of about, perhaps five-and-thirty. Her long hair was tied up neatly in a bun, although in her panic, it had started to come undone, with several locks of hair hanging down to her shoulders. A little spittle of dried bile trailed off the left side of her mouth. She also had a chance to look at the strange new clothes. She was wearing the same strange white shirt as Jorah had been, and for the first time she could see that the tight noose-like constriction she felt around her neck was a black, pointed scarf similar, again, to that not-Jorah was wearing. And she also had a pair of small black boards adorning her shoulders, except these were marked with four gold bars each.

Several tears welled up in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She was frightened and lost and truly alone.

* * *

The cockpit door slammed shut. Flight Engineer Dario Miguel Naharez stared at it for a moment longer before turning back to face him.

"What was _that_ all about?" asked Dario. "What the hell's wrong with _jefe_?"

"I don't know," breathed First Officer Jonathan "Jonah" de Mormont, as he relaxed back into his seat and sighed.

They were flying on autopilot, so he could take his hands and feet off the flight controls to rest them, now that he didn't have to fight back against their Captain suddenly going berserk for no apparent reason, trying to override the autopilot and probably damn near putting them into a tailspin. Jonah rubbed his sore legs and groaned. Yeah, at this altitude, they probably _could_ have recovered long before hitting the ocean, but then of course the passengers would have panicked and there'd be puke all over the cabin. People would complain, point fingers and stuff, and the airline would have to do something, maybe refund everyone their tickets before then turning the brunt of their ire towards the crew. And the way these things usually played out, even if the fault rested solely with the Captain, it was unlikely that Jonah and Dario would just be let off so easily either, especially not someone with a track record like Jonah.

He frowned. "I... I dunno what's gotten into her mind. I've never seen her act like this before."

Jonah was 50, and had been working for DAL for some 10 years now, and a different carrier for 10 years before that. A tall, barrel-chested man with grizzled hair and a thick mustache, he'd always dreamed of flying ever since he was a little boy. By 30, he had finally achieved this life's dream when he completed training and got his pilot's license, though the honeymoon ended pretty quickly once he found out that the pilot's life wasn't nearly as exciting or romantic as he thought it would be. About 10 years ago, he had gotten himself involved in some... _incident_ he'd rather not talk about right now, but suffice to say, led him to leaving his old employer for his current one. Unfortunately, now, because of having that on his record, and because he had probably joined DAL far too late in his career, it was unlikely now that he would ever make it to Captain before hitting the mandatory retirement age.

He glanced to his left, longingly, at the Captain's now empty seat.

Just then, his radio headset crackled and hissed again. "Tower to Dragon One Niner, Tower to Dragon One Niner; what's going on? We heard a scuffle in the cockpit. Over."

"Dragon One Niner, reading you loud and clear," replied Jonah, "situation normal. Apologies. Our captain, she had..." he paused as he thought about the best way to handle it, and then decided better not to make it too much of an issue, less they get ordered to land immediately, and all the hassle that would entail. "...she had to step out for a bit to use the lavatory. Over."

Air traffic control's voice responded, flat and unconvinced. "Roger that. Alert us immediately if any further issue arises. Over."

"Affirmative," replied Jonah, "wilco. Over and out." _Damn it, Dany_ , he thought to himself, _I hope this is just a bad case of the runs and nothing worse_.

Captain Amelia Daniels (or "Dany" as she was affectionately known by friends and co-workers) was the airline's first female pilot certified for the jumbo. She had been promoted to Captain just three years earlier, also one of the youngest to achieve that rank in the company's history, and with all the fanfare that entailed.

Granted, of course, this was probably all part of some affirmative action campaign on the airline's part, you know, for good publicity. Flying was still very much a man's job; for all this talk lately about "workplace diversity" and "equal opportunities" and whatnot, less than two percent of all pilots were women. But the airline could sure do with any public show of good faith they could get right now, you know, after the recent spate of delays and cancellations and overbookings, all the complaints about safety and sanitation and lost luggage and shitty treatment of passengers who had missed their connections, all the controversies like... well, for example, who could forget about that recent incident just a few months ago when one of DAL's executives, spoilt brat, held up a whole flight at the gate because he got upset at the cabin crew for serving him nuts in a bag rather than on a plate? The "Nutgate" incident was all over the evening news for a damn bloody _week_. Blond little shithead, still fresh outta business school, who only got his position on the board because of mommy pulling the strings, no doubt about that.

There was another good reason too for promoting people like Dany while they were still pretty fresh, and it was the fact that the median age for the unionized flight crews right now was getting to be north of fifty, meaning that soon enough, there was expected to be a huge spike in turnover as pilots began hitting retirement en masse. This was also why the Flight Engineer station on all these flights were mostly being assigned to younger guys like Dario here, in the hopes that this would get them the experience for at least some of them to make it to Captain or First Officer.

And of course, on top of all this, the fact that "Cap'n Dany" wasn't too hard on the eyes certainly didn't hurt her newfound celebrity as the "poster girl for the airline" either, even landed herself a spot in some of their travel magazines and on billboards, "Ride The Dragon!" and all that... and...

 _Stop it_ , Jonah scolded himself. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. She was much younger than he was. Yeah, by now, they had flown several flights together now, and usually on long haul routes like this one - which meant they did have a lot of time to sit together and talk about things. Granted, flying long distance also meant that they were usually flying a widebody, and thus there was always a third person joining them (and yes, for all this talk about these new fangled digital "glass cockpits" just coming out now on some of the newer jets that meant only two pilots were needed, it was unlikely DAL would be upgrading their fleet for quite a while to come, all things considered. For now, everything would continue to be good ol' analogue).

"You okay?" chimed in Dario, noticing the glum expression on Jonah's face, "c'mon man, I don't need you crapping out on me too! Don't think I can land by myself."

Jonah snapped out of it. "I'm fine," he grunted.

"Well, whatever it is, I sure as hell hope it wasn't the fish," quipped Dario, settling back into his seat and fastening his seatbelt. "I had that for dinner too."

"That's why I got the steak," replied Jonah. "Kid, word of advice, _never_ get the seafood option. Even if we are getting the same shit as First Class, I wouldn't trust it. Ever."

There was indeed some wisdom to Jonah's sage advice: everyone knew that the airline had been cutting corners for years, with some longtime flyers and crew alike noting a precipitous drop in the quality of the meal service. All the finest wines and liquors were gone from the First Class menu, and the alcohol selection down in Coach now only rolled around with the lunch or dinner service (unless a particularly desperate passenger was willing to slide a few extra bucks to one of the stewardesses outside of proper mealtimes). There were even reports going around in the tabloids that they'd managed to save tens of thousands last year just by eliminating one olive from every salad served in First and Business. On that note, Jonah took a sip from the steaming mug on his cupholder. Yeah, the coffee was reliably _terrible_ as always, even with four or five whole packets of sugar mixed in, but at least it did the job of keeping him up and on his toes. He figured he'd need it, especially if Dany wasn't feeling so well.

They waited for several minutes to see if the Captain came back, all the while wondering what was wrong with her, or where she had gone to, though at the very least the fact that no one had called the cockpit yet to complain about their pilot running up and down the aisles screaming her head off was a somewhat reassuring sign. Maybe, hopefully, all she needed was a nice long bathroom break.


	2. Saint Elmo's Fire

_**Writer's notes** : thanks for the positive remarks. 'Tis a strange story indeed! The inspiration for this tale came from... well, I won't say for now. You'll all just have to wait and find out at the end of this story. Speaking of which, here is the next part. _

* * *

**Part II**

 **Saint Elmo's Fire**

It might have been only a few minutes, but for Daenerys, it may as well have been centuries.

She sat there, slumped down on top of the toilet seat, in tears, not knowing where in all the Gods' names was she, how had she come here, who were these people around her, who seemed familiar and yet complete strangers at the same time. The tiny room was the only refuge she knew would find in this strange prison, the only place she could feel alone and secure and try to figure out what was this place.

She was beginning to believe that this must have been some sort of hell. This must have been her punishment for having the arrogance or carelessness or just absent-mindedness for just one moment to think that she could conquer where many others before her had failed. And now for that lapse of judgment on her part, she was taken away from everything she knew and somehow landed up here in this... this... mighty dragon-shaped flying ship of sorts... a _jumbojet_?

She blinked, confused. The word just flashed into her mind out of nowhere, like it was a memory she already had planted firmly in her mind.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to follow up on that thought. _Jumbojet_... what a funny word. What language did it come from? Her mind slowly filled with images and sounds, strange things she had never seen or heard before, and yet she must have at the same time, for she was recalling these items from memory. It was as if this new persona, this new body she found herself in, had previously lived an active and colorful life all of its own.

Her mind beheld a great metallic beast standing on the ground, at rest, like an enormous bird roosting. Its belly was shimmering silver while its back was white. Solid red-and-black lines ran down its flank, from its nose down to the tip of its long tail. A big, polished black dome covered its nose. Its enormous silvery wings were stretched out fully, though such wings appeared to be rigid, locked in place; they did not flap the way the wings on a bird or a dragon would, which left it a complete mystery as to how this creature was able to propel itself forwards through the air at all. Perhaps the answer to this mystery lay in the large, bulbous, silver-colored barrel-like shapes - there were four in all, two hanging beneath each wing. A huge hump rose from the front of the front of the beast's body, forming its "head", and just above the nose, a small sliver of what looked like several small black window panes must have been its "eyes". The end of its long tail split into three fins, like a whale's tail mixed with that of a shark. The fin that rose up from the center was entirely black in color, though it bore what appeared to be a small red sigil painted upon it - it looked like a stylized firebird with its wings curved upwards to touch its head, forming a circle, and beneath it the word: "D.A.L."

The beast was at rest, sitting on the ground, in the middle of a vast, flat, open plaza made of smooth, black stone... a _tarmac_? It was surrounded by a ring of a small, wheeled vehicles of various shapes and sizes, looking like they were forming the walls of a nest. Men were swarming all over the beast, engrossed in whatever little tasks they had been given, looking like ants compared to its great girth.

Her attention was drawn to three such people in particular, walking all around the beast, performing an inspection of sorts, a... _pre-flight check_? And when she tried to focus on the faces of the three of them, she could recognized one of them as herself - or at least this current body she found herself in, the one that did not look or feel at all like hers and yet it did at the same time.

And now, her mind divulged a name for the woman she beheld. That name was... _Captain Amelia Daniels_ , though she preferred to just go by "Dany" for short.

* * *

The telephone in the cockpit rang.

Dario answered it. "Hello? No, sorry, she's... uh, taking a little pitstop break, but I'll put you through to the First Officer." He held out the handset towards Jonah. "It's _Miss Andy_ again," he said, rolling his eyes as if vaguely annoyed, "there's something she wants to speak to Cap about."

Jonah took the handset and spoke into it, loudly and clearly. "What's going on?"

"Sir," said Andrea, one of the flight attendants; she was calling him from where she was stationed, down somewhere in tail section. "Gray's telling me he's smelling smoke."

"You sure he didn't mean to say something else?" asked Jonah. Gray was one of the newer guys brought onboard by the airline in the last year, an immigrant who was just barely getting a grasp of the language ("Gray" was just his nickname, since most people probably couldn't be bothered to pronounce his real name). Of course, though a cost-cutting trick, hiring barely-fluent flight attendants and putting them in charge of the passengers' comfort had gone over as well as you could imagine it would with both passengers, and with the unions representing the existing stewards. The airline had also recently caught a lot of flak for this from politicians on both the right-wing (for hiring darker-skinned foreigners) and the left (for treating these migrant workers like veritable _slaves_ ).

"No, he's sure of what he smelled," replied Andrea, adding "I believe him."

 _Please tell me someone hasn't gotten it into his head to light up just one more before bed_ , grumbled Jonah to himself. DAL flights all had a dedicated smoking section, but that was forbidden past a certain time, and yes, he did make sure that the "No Smoking" signs were turned back on.

On the other hand, it was still far better that the source of this commotion would indeed be an unruly tourist, than the far more terrifying alternatives...

"Did he see anyone lighting up?" asked Jonah, cautiously.

"No, sir."

Jonah frowned. An onboard fire at 40k feet in the air was every pilot's ultimate nightmare. Which was all the more reason that if something was indeed wrong, it was better to confront it now than put it off until later. "I want you to ask him to show you where he smelt it," commanded Jonah, "check the place out for yourself, but keep it discreet; I don't want the passengers panicking over something that might not be anything at all. So no, no fire-extinguishers or anything until we know for sure what it is. Understood?"

"Affirmative," said Andrea, and hung up.

Jonah turned to face Dario. "Cabin crew's reporting the smell of smoke somewhere down in the tail section," he said, grimly, "I want you to check all the smoke alarms there right now."

"Roger," said Dario, turning to face his dashboard, "no, negative, nothing showing up."

"Check again," commanded Jonah.

Dario took a moment to double-check the readings before reporting back: "no, negative, sir. Cabin section, clear. Cargo hold, clear. Rear lavatories, clear."

 _Strange_ , thought Jonah. He kept his eyes focused on the windshield in front, but all the same his brow furrowed and his thoughts drifted as to what exactly was the meaning of all of this. The captain goes berserk for no reason at all in the middle of a transmission, and minutes later, someone reports smoke in the cabin - maybe it was all just a coincidence, but Jonah couldn't shake that awful feeling otherwise.

That was when he saw something most odd. There was a small flash of light out the front of the windshield, like a sparkler going off for just a second. For a moment, Jonah thought it was just the reflection from the flashing navigation lights mounted on each wingtip, except that it was quickly followed by another just after it. And another. And another. Within seconds, suddenly, the viewport was filled with little arcs of light.

"What's _that?_ " asked Dario, leaning a little from his jump seat and craning his neck so that he could peer out through the windshield. "Is that... Saint Elmo's Fire?"

"I don't know," muttered Jonah, apprehensively. He glanced down at the weather radar, but it was showing the skies ahead of them as completely clear.

He looked back up. The strange shimmering effect had intensified. The windshield was filled with little pinpoints of green and blue light swirling and streaming past them, as the jet continued forwards. It reminded Jonah of something out a damn sci-fi b-movie, like they were traveling through hyperspace. "Let's get a better look out there," said Jonah, as he reached for one of the switches on the dashboard, the one for the landing lights, and cranked it on.

At once, the area in front of them lit up as the four massive 600-watt halogen lamps, two mounted on each wing, kicked on. The intense light from these lamps bathed the area in front of them with a sickly greenish-blue glow, as the white illumination from the aircraft clashed with the ominous cloud of whatever it is they were now finding themselves sailing through. Whereas just minutes ago, they were flying through clear and beautiful nighttime skies, now, all of a sudden, visibility had dropped sharply for no apparent reason, and the weather radar was still showing clear skies. It was the most bizarre visage that he had ever beheld in his life, and Jonah noticed that the hairs on the back of his head stood up as he continued surveying the scene in front of him.

"I think we'd better get the Captain back up here," muttered Dario, still staring ahead at the otherworldly aura engulfing the aircraft. "Something tells me three heads are better than two for a situation like this."

Jonah didn't say anything, but continued to stare on, as the plane continued to sail forward through this most bizarre weather phenomenon he had ever seen. He had an unpleasant and haunting suspicion that this was only just the beginning.


	3. Nightmare At 40,000 Feet

_**W** **riter's Notes:** Readers be warned. If last chapter ended with things getting stranger, this chapter gets positively weird. Perhaps it would be best to imagine everything from henceforth narrated in the voice of Rod Serling. You have been warned!_

* * *

 **Part III**

 **Nightmare At 40,000 Feet**

Portrait of a frightened man: Mr. Tyrone Lancaster, 37, brother, son, and salesman on sick leave. Mr. Lancaster was returning home from an extended 6-month leave of absence he had spent recovering from a nervous breakdown, the onset of which took place on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like this one - the difference being that, on that evening half a year ago, Mr. Lancaster's flight was terminated by the onslaught of his mental breakdown and forced removal from the aircraft. Tonight, he'll be traveling all the way to his appointed destination, which, just as was promised on the airline's advertisements, would mean taking him places he never imagined.

Tyrone shifted back and forth in his seat, and tugged a little on his collar, the tie choking him a little. He couldn't sleep. He'd booked a nice, wide business class seat; it had plenty of legroom, and Tyrone himself wasn't a very tall fellow, so physically, he was as comfortable as he could be. And yet, he couldn't quite force himself to just relax. He was sweating, and his heart racing. Maybe it was just the memories of that fateful night six months ago coming back to haunt him.

His brother James was supposed to be picking him up from the airport. Things just hadn't been the same between them, ever since Dad passed away. Tyrone's relationship with Dad was always a strained one at best and openly hostile at worst. From a young age, Dad had sent him packing off to boarding school and then to business school, trying to keep him away from home as much as possible. And those times he did come home, Dad never missed an opportunity to berate him, belittling his achievements, calling him ungrateful, always comparing him unfavorably to James and so on.

And yet something about the way Dad had died troubled him deeply. The police had found the old man, dead on the toilet, a smoking gun in his hand and his brains on the wall. Officially, it was declared a suicide, but one could never shake that sneaking suspicion that perhaps that was just a set-up and there was foul-play involved. Whatever else he may have been, the old miser was never known to be suicidal, and there was certainly no shortage of folks who would be missing him.

And then, not too long after then, for whatever reason, as he was on his way to the funeral, Tyrone had suffered a nervous breakdown - it had come just out of the blue, just after he had been seated but while they were still at the gate. The staff and the passengers were so frightened of how belligerently he had been behaving that they had called in the airport security to, ahem, _re-accommodate_ him - which didn't help him in the slightest. Getting your nose broken and then dragged unceremoniously down the aisle while other passengers stared on in shock and confusion - yeah, that tends to be a pretty traumatic experience.

"Here you are, Mr. Lancaster," smiled the stewardess as she stopped next to his seat and offered him the tray, "lemon daiquiri, just as you ordered."

"Uh, thank you," replied Tyrone, nodding and smiling weakly, trying to maintain some semblance of decorum as he took the glass.

When the stewardess had turned away to head back down the aisle, Tyrone downed the drink in one gulp. He wasn't proud of his habits, but it was all that was giving him comfort at that moment, and in any case, might as well take advantage of the complimentary drinks served in First and Business while they were still being offered (the way things were going at DAL, those would probably be eliminated next year, and then even people of the Lancasters' means would have to pay to wet their whistle just like those folks down in steerage).

He wiped his mouth with his tie, and dropped the empty plastic glass down on the floor, right next to the others he had consumed over the course of this red-eye flight. They really should have taken notice of this and stopped serving him by now, but he supposed that maybe they were content with the fact that he hadn't gotten belligerent yet, and were hoping he would eventually drink himself to sleep. He wondered if anyone on this flight recognized him from the last time he had flown, though then again, probably not - it's not like anyone there at the time had a camcorder or anything to get it all down on videotape and put it up on the eight o'clock news.

The overhead screen just a few seats up from him was showing some movie, but Tyrone didn't care much for it. Instead, he tried to focus his attention back down at the inflight magazine that lay open on his lap, the two-page spread largely dominated by an ad for... _Gimli's Gliders - World Class Air Tours Of The Realm! One vacation to rule them all!_ or something to that effect. He tried to read, but somehow found himself just repeating the same paragraph over and over again in his mind and not taking in a word of it.

He decided to put down the magazine and instead open the shutter on his window, hoping that maybe staring out at the nice evening sky would calm him down. Oh, how wrong that turned out to be.

The night sky outside had come alive, with flashes of green lightning. He had flown dozens of times before, sometimes in bad weather, but never had he seen anything like this. And beneath it, a brilliant white shimmering of light, like a blanket of sparks almost, clung to the wing. Tyrone simply stared on, in confusion and fear. He blinked. Was he seeing things? Was this the rum finally getting to him? He took off his glasses and squinted.

He thought he could see a dark shape moving through the sky, just beyond the edge of the wing. Another arc of lightning illuminated the sky, and he thought he could see light reflecting off a sleek, shining, metallic surface just hovering there... no, he _must_ be seeing things. He closed the shutter.

Don't worry, this will all be over soon... right?

* * *

 _Captain_ Dany stepped out of the tiny privy, and looked around her, trying to get a better sense of where and (more importantly) _who_ she was. This place, this _aircraft_... in this world, great metallic dragon-ships criss-crossed the skies, _hundreds_ of them at any given moment, ferrying _millions_ of people and tons upon tons of goods and wares between the many great cities of this world. Within these cities, towering spires of glass and steel reached into the sky, larger and grander than any of the glorious constructs of Old Valyria or anywhere else in the Realm, while below, millions of people lived and worked and got about with their daily lives. Mysterious sorceries allowed them to transmit music, voices, even moving pictures, through miles and miles of wires, or through the air, or even record them down on "magnetic tape" to be viewed and heard later.

This was a world of technological wonders, and a strange culture too that befuddled someone otherwise used to having traveled the length of Essos. This was a world where women were, at least as codified in the law, commanded to be treated the equal of men. This was also a world where, again, at least in theory, all people were to be considered equal in title and station to each other, even if the reality was far different. This was a world where the supreme power of the Realm rested not in the hands and sacred blood of kings, but in some elected bureaucrat, appointed to their station by popular acclaim. Even those nations that did not necessarily respect the will of the people at least paid some lip-service to the idea, usually by incorporating titles such as "Democratic" and "People's" into the very name of the land. How such nations could function at all without falling into anarchy and mob rule was a wonder all of its own.

And yet, just like Valyria of old, it was a glorious civilization built on a shaky and crumbling foundation, of greed, corruption, and arrogance slowly eating away at it from within. The very techno-sorcery that allowed this world and its many marvels to exist had also produced truly _terrifying_ weapons - weapons of such awe-inspiring power that just one of which could light up the sky like a million suns and reduce an entire city and its million inhabitants to naught but ashes and cinders, could even burn their shadows into the ground. And there were innumerable _thousands_ of such weapons in existence, whether being shuttled around on other flying aircraft, stored in concrete silos deep beneath the ground, or kept hidden under the oceans, inside the bellies of massive metallic shark-like sea-monsters lurking just beneath the waves, waiting for the moment that the nations of this world find some reason to unleash this world-ending power upon one another.

Yes, now, slowly but surely, the thoughts and memories of this body she found herself inhabiting, were starting to come back into her mind.

Her name was... _Amelia Daniels_ , she was _five-and-thirty years of age_ , but had only just made it to the rank of captain last year. She first joined the venerable transportation guild known as " _Dragon Airlines_ " or just " _DAL_ " just after completing her studies at _college_. As long as she could now remember, she had always been fascinated by flight. Her father had been a _fighter pilot_ too during _the War_ (what war? It must have been a pretty big one), and had even named her after a legendary warrioress of the sky who once mysteriously disappeared - or maybe it was after a famous actress? The memories were starting to get a little hazy and fragmentary at best. Dad had taken her and her two brothers gliding once, when she was only sixteen. At one-and-twenty years of age, she had started working as a stewardess, used to wear the iconic pink dress and little hat, though after several years she finally earned the money and merit needed to head off to attend _flight school_ and receive her _certification_. She had started out on a smaller _twinjet_ on _short-haul_ routes before the venerable _airline company_ had selected her for promotion to be the first woman to operate a _wide-body_... though probably motivated more by _good publicity_ than anything else.

Right now, she found herself standing in the... _business class section_ , those who were usually merchants, bankers, or others of higher means than the layperson (those rode down in _coach_ ). Most of the passengers were asleep or keeping to themselves, and did not notice her. Good; she did not want to draw attention to herself as she walked towards the front. She tried to hold her head up straight, but really, she was shaking and quivering, and not just from the trauma of what happened over Valyria, or the mind-blowing revelations of this new world she found herself in. It was also because this body... just _felt wrong_. Doubling her age in an instant, gaining a few inches in height as well as a few more in other places, and all the wear and tear of those extra years plus the unseen changes going on in the inside, and gaining all of that in what to her had seemed an instant - it was _painful_ to say the least.

Half walking, half-stumbling from her awkward gait, she made her way back to the control room, to the... _cockpit_ (what? Where did _that_ name come from?), took a deep breath, and opened the door.

"Captain!" spoke (not)Daario, looking up from his station, "you alright?"

"I... I..." she stuttered, not sure of what to say. She tried to focus on (not) Daario, tried to recall what exactly was he doing here. _Dario Miquel Naharez, Flight Engineer, age 37. He had been serving in the engineer's seat for some five years now_. She gulped and continued: "I'm... fine now. Sorry, uh, I, uh, had an upset stomach."

"I told you it was the fish!" quipped Dario, making light of the situation. Jorah glared at him... no, _Jonah,_ not Jorah _. Jonah, short for_ _Jonathan de Mormont, First Officer, age 50. A 10-year veteran of DAL; he had flown together with her many times before_.

As she looked at where Jonah was seated, her eyes looked past that and out the windshield, and that was when she caught sight of the dazzling light show that was now unfolding before them. Even in this strange place, she knew for a fact that whatever it was, it did not belong here. It reminded her of the strange green fog, the shadows and the lightning, the screaming and the thunder... it was said that The Doom still ruled in Valyria, and looking now outside the windshield, she felt a tingling down her spine.

"What's... what's that?" she asked, meekly.

"We don't know," said Jonah, keeping his eyes focused ahead, "it started not too long after you stepped out."

"Anything on the..." she racked her mind, trying to find the right word, "...the _ray-dar_?"

"Negative, Captain," replied Jonah, "skies are showing up clear. I was just about to radio ATC, see what they're reporting; could just be a problem with ours." He cleared his throat before he continued. "Dragon One Niner to Tower, Dragon One Niner to Tower. We are experiencing anomalous weather patterns inconsistent with onboard radar. I repeat: anomalous weather patterns inconsistent with radar. What are your current weather conditions? Over."

As he spoke, Dany calmly took her seat beside him, and rubbed her eyes, staring in disbelief at the spread before her. Dozens upon dozens of blinking lights, little glass vials marked with arrows and numbers. Little labels with funny words on them. Just looking at the sheer number of these items displayed in front of her was dizzying. She stared back and forth, and scratched her head, trying to recall more from the mind of Lady Daniels, beginning with the names of each little item presented before her. Airspeed indicator... check. Altimeter... check. Vertical speed indicator... check. Artificial horizon... check. Directional gyro... check. Fuel pressure gauges... check. Engine pressure ratio gauges... check. Landing gear indicator lights... check. Speed brake lever... check. Parking brake lever... check. Stab trim... check. Rudder trim... check. Yaw damper... check. Engine throttles, all four of them... check. Thrust reversal levers (don't want to touch those right now)... check.

It was all overwhelming, to say the least.

As she put her own _headset_ back on, she could hear Jonah's voice, both from him sitting next to her, and also repeated in the earpiece. "Dragon One Niner to Tower, Dragon One Niner to Tower. I repeat: anomalous weather patterns inconsistent with radar. What are your current weather conditions? Over." All she could hear in response to him was an empty, hissing static. Jonah turned to face her: "Captain, I think the weather might be interfering with our transmissions."

"Keep trying," she insisted; she was still trying to get settled into her seat, trying to figure out just what things were like when they were normal, let alone having to deal with this bizarre situation that had just come up out of nowhere. She looked up, and her heart sank further. _Oh Gods_ , how could she forget? There were even _MORE_ controls on the ceiling above her! Engine start... fuel jettison... fire suppression... anti-ice... windscreen wipers... air-conditioning...

 _Calm down_ , she tried to remind herself. _You can do this_. It will be just like... like the first time you ever rode on Drogon's back. Yes. You are the blood of Old Valyria; flying is in your blood! Stay calm. All you need to do is fly this thrice-damned plane. Remember: what would Amelia Daniels do in your place?

 _Ding-ding_ , rang a bell-like sound. It was accompanied by a flat, expressionless male voice speaking. "Traffic, traffic," it warned.

"What's... what's that?" she asked, confused.

Jonah stared at her, surprised and annoyed that she had seemingly forgotten this. "Captain? That's a warning on TCAS."

"Tee-khas..." whispered Dany, "right, yes, of course it is. Uh..." Tee-khas... Tee-cas... TCAS... _Traffic Collision Avoidance System_...

 _Ding-ding_ rang the device again, repeating his ominous words: "traffic, traffic."

"What's... what's it saying?" she asked, trying to recall from the deepest recesses of Amelia's mind.

Jonah's brow furrowed as he read the warning. "We've got a bogey inbound, nine o'clock, squawking at 0000."

"Hang on, that can't be right, nobody uses 0000," said Dario. As he spoke, he reached down into the drawer below his desk, where he kept several books and clipboards.

"Shit, and he's close," warned Jonah.

"Yeah, that can't be right, there are no other flights scheduled in this area, not for several hundred miles," added Dario; he was reading from a checklist he had pulled up from the drawer.

"Can we try to, uh, _contact them_?" asked Dany. "You do the honors."

"Aye," muttered Jonah, "this is Dragon One Niner to unidentified aircraft at flight level four-zero-zero, heading two-two-seven. Please identify yourself. Over." He waited for a moment before continuing. "I repeat: Dragon One Niner to unidentified aircraft at flight level four-zero-zero, please identify yourself. Over."

No response was forthcoming.

 _Ding-ding!_ "Traffic, traffic," the TCAS continued to drone.

"Climb," commanded Dany. She couldn't remember if this was the correct procedure in a situation like this, but it seemed like the most logical thing to do that she could think of at that moment. "Climb; we'll avoid them, and maybe we'll also get above this... uh... bad weather."

"Initiating climb," replied Jonah, reaching forwards towards the various dials and switches for the autopilot, "resetting flight level to four-one-zero." He turned one of the knobs, and the little red-glowing numbers next to it changed from 400 to 410.

At once, Dany felt the entire room tilt backwards slightly as they began to rise higher and higher up into the sky. Thank the Gods, this _aircraft_ was equipped with this so-called... "autopilot", which would do most of the flying for them. Maybe, with luck, it could take them all the way until they were back on the ground, and she could figure out what to do next.

 _Ding-ding_. "Clear of conflict," announced the mechanical voice. Dany breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't fancy the idea of her first few moments in this strange new world also being her last.

"At flight level four-one-zero," announced Jonah. However, even as the plane began to level out after climbing another thousand feet up into the sky, Dany noticed that the dazzling lights outside refused to give up. Jonah too noticed. "Captain, the weather's not letting up."

"How high can storms reach?" asked Dany.

"Captain, you should know this, it's covered in basic," scolded Jonah, "cumulonimbus clouds, well, 40k feet is the norm but some can reach maybe 60, 70k feet. Hmmm. Maybe we should divert and try and go around the storm."

 _Ding-ding_. "Traffic. Traffic," rang the TCAS again.

Dany and Jonah both stared at the blinking warning light. Another lost aircraft somewhere out there? Not quite, as Dany was about to find out.

"Bloody hell?!" blurted Jonah, "that guy's changed direction. He's... heading... son of a bitch, _he's heading straight for us._ "

"What? No, impossible, no passenger jet in service can possibly pull a turn like that!" blurted Dario.

"Dive," murmured Dany. And then she shouted, "DIVE!"

As if reacting on Amelia's instinct, she pushed hard on the yoke, and this time, Jonah added his strength to hers, and together, they shoved the control column forward, as far as it would go, and the nose suddenly pitched downwards and the entire cockpit shook and shuddered.

And in that brief moment, another streak of lightning lit up the sky. And in the distance, Dany could see it: a lone, dark shape, hurtling right at them.

"LOOK OUT!"

" _MIERDA_!" swore Dario.

"C'MON, C'MON!"

 _Ding-ding_. "Traffic. Traffic."

"AAAARRRGGGHHH!"

In a split second, the other aircraft got gone from just a blip in the distance, to suddenly filling up almost their entire view in their windshield. Despite the fact that it was night, Dany could see it clearly, as if it were bright as day, even without the strange lights.

It was a huge metallic bird, much like the one she herself was sitting in, except with a few differences - it lacked the distinctive hump at the front, and in place of four barrel-shapes hanging under its wings, it had just two (albeit, two enormous ones at that, almost as large in girth as the beast's own body). Its back was painted white for the most part, its belly grey, and the line where the white and grey met was adorned with red and blue cheatlines running from its nose down to its tail, ending at the large fin jutting up from the rear that bore upon it a bird-shaped sigil, half-red and half-blue. The entire craft seemed to glow, not just from the lights around it, but also an eerie, sour green aura that seemed to emanate from somewhere just behind it.

All the windows were lit up with a sickly yellow light, but brightest of them all was the cockpit windshield; when Dany stared into it, she could have sworn that she could see the face of the mysterious and silent pilot. There was only one being there, sitting at the controls; she could not see him (or her or _it_ clearly), and was thankful for it. For even though all she could make out were those dreadful glowing eyes, never before in her life had she ever been as terrified as she was at that moment.

All of this lasted, at most, less than a second, for a moment later, their nose dropped towards the ground; DAL Flight 019 went into a sharp dive, and the eldritch ghost plane swept up and disappeared from view.

* * *

Andrea frowned as she quietly exited the R4 lavatory. Most of the passengers were either asleep or just minding their own business, reading or watching the movie being shown on the overhead projector screen. Good. There was no sign anywhere that anyone was disturbed, at least not yet.

It turns out that Gray wasn't getting worked up over nothing at all. Over the last few minutes, the smell, whatever it was, had slowly gotten stronger. It was an acrid smell, and as she was quick to find out, now it wasn't just restricted to the rearmost lavatories. Which meant that if it was a problem somewhere in the ventilation, then things were far worse than she had thought before.

At the central galley, Andy found Gray there, along with Irina, Jackie, and Dorina. The women were all dressed in the airline's signature pink skirt and jacket and little hat, with the little white scarf and gloves. Obviously, the men didn't wear the same uniform; Gray was dressed in a light blue shirt, with dark blue pants and tie. All four of them though did share the same concerned looks as Andy reported back to them with her findings.

"Anything?" asked Irina.

Andy shook her head. "No, nothing. R4 and R5 are clear."

"Same with L4 and L5," said Dorina.

"Must tell captain," spoke up Gray, in his broken English, "if fire, must land now."

"Shh!" hushed Jackie, "please keep it down. We don't want the passengers to..."

She did not finish the sentence before all hell broke loose.

All of a sudden, the entire cabin shook violently, and the floor seemed to drop out from under them as the front sloped downwards. It was as one would feel riding a roller-coaster, except that Andy wasn't sitting down and strapped in; with the sudden change in pitch, she found herself thrown right up into the air, off her feet.

She screamed and instinctively held her hands out in front of her head, for whatever good it would do her. In the second or so she was sailing through mid-air, she noticed that while most of the passengers were fastened into their seats, several weren't, and they too were suddenly ejected upwards, together with her.

With a loud **_THUD_** , Andy struck the ceiling, and hard. Her mind blanked out for a moment; it must have been a concussion, because the next thing she would remember, she was back down on the floor, sprawled out, Gray and Irina stooping down over her, holding a packet of ice to her head. All around her, passengers were crying out, sobbing, or murmuring loudly to each other. As she stared up, she could see that several of the overhead luggage bins had opened, spilling their contents out, and the ceiling panel above her was cracked.

What the hell just happened?


	4. A Doctor In The House

**Part IV**

 **A Doctor In The House**

"What. The. FUCK. Was _that_?!" blurted Dario, once they were level again and the cockpit had stopped shaking so violently. "I didn't see much from here! What was it? Another airliner? A secret military plane? A frikkin' UFO?"

It may as well have been. But right now, Jonah and Dany simply stared bug-eyed at one another, shaken by what they had just seen. "You... saw _that_ , right?" said Jonah, quietly, making sure he hadn't just imagined the whole thing.

Dany nodded. Even without saying a word, he could tell from how wide those deep purple eyes were that she was just as frightened as he.

"I... I dunno what to... _fuck_!" muttered Jonah, exasperated. He settled back down into his seat. Sometimes in life, there are situations for which you just can't find the right words. This was one of them.

"Are you... alright?" asked Dany, timidly.

"I'm fine," grunted Jonah, "but... shit. Fuck! That was close."

They had plummeted over a vertical mile in just under a minute, before they had leveled out again at 35k feet. The autopilot had conked out when Dany had overridden the controls, but Jonah had now reset it at 36k, and they were slowly climbing again.

The telephone rang.

Neither he nor the Captain answered it, so Dario took it instead. "Yes?" he answered, "yes, we had a... near collision with, uh, something... yes, uh-huh... yes... yes... well, obviously we're still alive. Yes, Cap'n and Jonah here saved us, I... what? That bad? Oh... that's not good. Right... I'll tell them right away." Dario turned to face the two of them: "It's bad; we've got at least a couple dozen passengers injured from that maneuver."

"What... what kind of injuries?" asked Dany.

"Bruises, cuts, concussions," began Dario, "we've got a boy with two broken legs, and Jackie's got burned somehow. The rest of the cabin crew's trying to administer first-aid right now to those in need of it most, but my guess is that we're gonna have to land ASAP. They're also reporting visible damage to the ceiling; there could be damage to some of the systems we have running above the cabin - to say nothing of the systems we have running below the floor."

"Sorry, uh, remind me, what exactly do we have running in the ceiling and under the floor?" asked Dany.

Dario raised an eyebrow, puzzled by the Captain's statement (as was Jonah as well). "Uh, you know, just about everything! Wiring, hydraulic lines..."

"Then check _everything_ out," commanded Jonah, "last thing we want is to lose control."

"Is that all?" asked Dany, "is that all they said is wrong?"

Dario paused, awkwardly, which could mean one thing. _Oh you just had to ask, didn't you?_ , thought Jonah to himself. Dario continued: "smoke in the cabin's getting thicker. People are starting to notice it now."

Jonah looked at Dany. "Captain," he said, sternly, "we need to declare an emergency."

"Uh... yes. Yes, if you say so," she said, sounding equal parts baffled and hesitant. Seriously, what was wrong with her? Damn it, this was so not the day he needed her to be acting so aloof, like she didn't know what she was doing. Jonah saw her glance back towards the windshield, out at the storm. The strange lights had started up again. "Can we also... get out of this storm? Can we... go back the way we came in?"

"Captain, this is the most direct route to the nearest land," chided Jonah.

"Something about this storm is... it's scaring me," blurted the Captain, "Please, let's get out of here! We'll just go around it!"

Something about the way Captain was behaving was definitely off, and Jonah decided that it was better he confront it sooner than later. "Captain, I dunno what the bloody 'ell is wrong with you, but get a grip on yourself, damn it!" He noticed he was raising his voice, and he honestly didn't know what he was more angry about, the unprofessional way she was carrying herself right now, or her weird behavior earlier that had nearly put them in a tailspin, or maybe just this whole freaky situation, the strange lights and that plane that just came out of nowhere (what the hell was that thing anyway?). Maybe he was just losing his cool.

"Hey, easy _hombre_!" cut in Dario, "look, man, this whole things got me on edge too!" For a moment, nobody said anything. Jonah, Dany, and Dario looked back and forth at each other. And then Dario continued: "hey, look, I'm just gonna sit here and declare emergency, okay? _Comprende_?" He calmly reached down for the transponder under his seat, and changed the dials to 7700 - the internationally accepted code for an onboard emergency. He looked back up. "Okay, we better now?"

Jonah said nothing, but instead looked forward again, fuming. While they had been arguing, the lights outside seemed to intensify, as if this whole light show was being fueled by their bickering. He clicked on his radio. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. Dragon One Niner, at flight level three-six-zero. Near collision with unidentified aircraft has left several passengers and crew in need of urgent medical care. I repeat: injured passengers and crew, requesting immediate landing. Over."

As before, there was only hissing static in response. Oh, this was not good at all.

"Uh... mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" came Dany's voice, trying to repeat after him, "Dragon One Nine... _err_... flight level three hundred and sixty. We nearly collided with an... unidentified aircraft; we're... alive, but we have wounded passengers... over."

"Captain? You didn't press 'Push To Talk'," muttered Jonah, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

"Oh? Oh, right!" replied Dany, "sorry, again, it's the... yes, it's the fish. Just like Dario said."

 _That must be some really bad case of food poisoning_ , thought Jonah, bitterly. _Dario, you'd damn well better not conk out on me too_. He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment, exasperated. _Oh God..._ s _o, our radar's clearly not working, since it didn't pick up that... whatever it was. We can't contact the tower. This freak weather, whatever it is, is actively trying to KILL US. We've got injured passengers in need of urgent medical care. We've got possible damage to the electrical and hydraulic systems. Oh, and we've got a possible fire burning somewhere onboard. And the captain's acting strange, like she's never flown before. Yes, we've flown this route dozens of times and the one time you burn out is the one time all this weird shit happens - it's almost like they were related_. Just fantastic... could things possibly get any worse?

Plenty, as he was about to find out.

* * *

Irina didn't know how or why the captain had put the plane into such a sudden dive as she had just done. But she was known to be a good pilot, so there must have been a good reason to. But whatever it may be, the fact remained that in just several seconds, the entire cabin had gone from calm and quiet to a raging madhouse. Several passengers and crew-members, Andrea among them, had been launched straight into the air and struck the ceiling. Meanwhile, Jackie had gotten her arms scalded when the galley's coffee machine had splashed all over her. Irina herself had escaped harm for the most part, though she had broken a nail and bruised herself a little.

But she couldn't let that stop her now. Now was the time to do what her training had demanded of her, to show that stewardesses were more than just pretty faces to serve drinks and plaster across on the ads; now, she and her fellow cabin crew had to help out anyone and everyone until they were back on the ground. She looked ahead.

One young man, a teenager with long black hair, was strapped down into his seat, sobbing in pain, his legs visibly broken from the impact. At that moment, he was surrounded by three passengers attending to him. Irina took a moment to look at the one closest to him: he was an elderly man, clean-shaven with short, tidy grey hair, and dressed in a grey tweed suit. He also had a stethoscope out, checking the lad's vitals. The boy whimpered.

"Excuse me sir," asked Irina, "sorry, are you a doctor?"

"That's right," said the man, looking up. "Just give me a minute here." He finished up checking up the boy, and then gave directions to the other two on how to place him. Irina wondered if she should help, but then decided that here, in the narrow confines of the aisle, she would only be crowding up the place more. She quickly walked back to the galley to check on all the other passengers in this section of the cabin, before returning. By then, the elderly gentleman had finished his work for the time being.

"Dr. Harrison Semley, at your service," he said, offering his hand.

"Doctor, we have other passengers in need of your services," said Irina.

"Absolutely," replied Dr. Semley. He took a quick look back at the boy, making sure the two other passengers were following his instructions. "But please, if I may, I'd first like to have a word with the pilot."

"Our captain is busy," said Irina.

"I don't doubt it, and don't worry, I'm not going up there to berate her for her actions," said the doctor, calmly and patiently. "But listen: we have people here who have been severely injured. We need to land as soon as possible, we need to get them to a hospital."

"A hospital? Oh, what is it?"

"This young man here had both legs broken," explained Dr. Semley, "he wasn't wearing his seatbelt; when the plane suddenly plunged, momentum carried him up and over and flew across four rows of seats."

Just then, the cabin shook violently, and the lights flickered. Irina and Dr. Semley grabbed onto the nearest seats and held on for dear life, just in case the plane bucked suddenly again. It didn't this time, but the cabin continued to shake, and there was a loud grating noise.

"Good God!" moaned one of the passengers, accompanied by a sudden surge in the sound of the engines.

* * *

With a long, loud heave, Tyrone gagged up the rest of the bile in his throat. The barf bag was bulging and dangerously near-capacity. There was more vomit, on his expensive designer pants and jacket, on his polished leather shoes, some even on his glasses - all of it the remains of tonight's copious drinking mixed with whatever crazy stunt the captain had just pulled. Crazy bitch, what the hell was that all about?

Someone a couple rows behind him had gotten flung up, hit the ceiling, and landed back down hard; the person seated next to that bugger was now tending to him, and there were probably many others throughout the plane. Tyrone wondered if he should be a noble soul and go and help him and... oh god, here comes another one. Tyrone gripped the edges of the bag and heaved.

 _Blaarrgh!_

Okay, surely he must be empty now. He tried to fold down the top of the bag and tape it shut, but his head was splitting from the dehydration, making it hard to focus. The bag slipped out of his grubby fingers and landed at his feet with a _**squelch**_ , releasing its contents. The smell was horrible.

Tyrone opened the window next to him and peered out, hoping that looking outside would ease his motion sickness, calm him down and... yeah, no, not happening. Yes, he had forgotten about the shimmering white sheet of light he had seen earlier, clinging to the wing, only now, it had intensified. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, now it was joined by strange... swirling forms around each of the two engines he could see, like wisps of glowing powder or smoke or something, dancing around each pod and over the wings, tendrils extending over the metal skin.

Out of curiosity, he shifted forward in his seat a little, trying to see more of the wing out of that tiny window. Yes, now he could see a little bit of the rear of the wing and the furthermost engine and OH MY GOD, THE ENGINES ARE ON FIRE.

Bright orange jets of flame, each maybe 30, maybe 40 feet long, came shooting out of the rear of the furthest engine pod, like it was suddenly transformed into a rocket booster or something. And though he could not see the rear of the nearer engine from this angle, from his business-class seat towards the front of the plane, it was only logical to assume that the closer engine too was also spouting gouts of fiery death.

From his seat, Tyrone stared on, in a mix of horror and lurid fascination. He blinked. It was a terrifyingly beautiful scene to behold: the scarlet flames, the swirling lights, and beyond it, the vivid arcs of green lightning and glowing aura against the night sky like the Aurora Borealis.

At some point, though, he decided he'd had enough, and squeezed his eyes shut and did not open them again for the longest time he could remember. And all he could think about, apart from the dizziness in his head and the nausea in his gut, was what exactly was going to happen next? Were the fuel tanks going to ignite, the whole plane explode into a fireball? Were the flames going to melt the cabin, burn everyone inside to a crisp? Were they going to crash and die in the impact, or survive only to be left bobbing up and down in the ocean, to drown or get eaten by sharks or die from exposure to the elements? Or marooned on an island in the middle of the ocean, probably inhabited by cannibals or monsters from some distant age long forgotten? Were they going to choke on the smoke he could now smell in the cabin? Was he just going to sit here and slowly die from dehydration, because the stewardesses were too busy right now to bring him a glass of water, with ice and a little slice of lemon on the side?

Probably the latter.

* * *

Even from up front in the cockpit, they could hear the engines making straining noises. When she had first arrived on this strange place, Dany could remember just how frightening and bizarre the constant rumbling of those great engines had been to her, like the sound of a dragon's heavy, constant breathing. Oddly enough, in just a few short minutes, she had kind of gotten used to it, though she supposed that was thanks to the mind of Lady Amelia Of The House Of Daniels, with whom she had now become one in body, mind, and possibly soul too.

But what she was hearing now was unlike anything even Lady Amelia heard before, and the panic she could see in the eyes of Jonah and Dario reinforced the realization that this truly was an exceptional situation, even for someone brought up in this strange world. It was a rumbling, grating sound, rising and falling rapidly; if the "normal" sound of the engines were like a dragon breathing, the wretched din they made now was like that dragon was now choking and gagging for breath.

At that moment, she heard one of them surging loudly, and then a heavy **_CLUNK_** , followed by a warning _**ding**_ from the dashboard. She noticed one of the small devices, labeled "EPR", was rapidly falling, the one marked "1".

"Engine failure, number 1," barked Jonah.

Dany's mind raced as she tried to recall what to do next. Her eyes shot back and forth across the dashboard, desperately looking for something, anything. She also remembered there were more controls overhead, and looked up. The first label to greet her eyes was... _fire suppression?_ _It's worth a try_.

"Fire action!" she commanded, "number 1!"

For once, Jonah did not react with surprise, so clearly she must have said something correct. He pulled up a small notebook he kept in the pouch next to him, and opened it to a specific page. "Checklist, powering gear."

Fortunately for Dany, the thoughts and memories of the previous occupant of this head were now coming quicker to her mind than ever before. Whoever this Lady Amelia Daniels may have been in life, she was at the very least extremely knowledgeable in the strange ways of this world, and that included the operation of this massive and monstrous contraption. An enormous construct, untold millions of tiny moving parts, each intricately crafted with the highest precision to fit and lock in with each other and move in concert. Hundreds of miles of delicate wiring, strung throughout the beast's body, like nerves. Thousands of gallons of oil sloshing back and forth inside the tanks, inside the beast's belly and inside its wings, fueling four huge and hungry engines, each burning as hot and fierce as any dragon's breath for hours and hours on end. A skin and skeleton crafted from materials completely unheard of anywhere in The Realm. And all of this in the capable of hands of one woman and her two trusted companions.

The more she thought and learned about it, the more she marveled at just how all of the pieces fit together. Lady Amelia had undergone months of rigorous training in flight school, had spent countless hours both in the... _flight simulator_ , and, eventually on actual aircraft. If the great machines of this world held great power, then they could and should only ever be entrusted to those with great responsibility. Indeed, thinking back to her earlier thoughts, perhaps that was why this world still lived on, even when these people possessed the very power to end it in their hands; that such great weapons were only ever entrusted in the hands of those with wisdom and restraint enough to wield them?

Dany felt ashamed. Ashamed to admit that where once she thought she knew better than anyone else (and why not? She had been after all the Stormborn, the Unburnt, the Mother Of Dragons, the Breaker Of Chains, Khaleesi Of The Great Grass Sea, Queen Of Meereen, Lord Of The Bay Of Dragons, and, well, you get it), now she was coming around to realize that in all her hubris, she was still probably only _half_ the woman that Lady Daniels was. And she was also ashamed in the knowledge that it was her arrival here tonight that had deprived this aircraft and everyone upon it of a capable pilot. Lady Amelia Daniels would know what to do in this situation... well, maybe. But if anyone here tonight perished, then that terrible burden all rested on Dany's shoulders.

"Captain?" asked Jonah, "powering gear?"

"Uh... set," she said, snapping out of it. Though once she could recall the first stage of the drill, she found she could quickly recall the next steps after it. Evidently, this whole procedure had been well rehearsed by Lady Amelia many times before.

"Thrust lever," said Jonah.

"C-closed," stuttered Dany as she found what she thought and hoped was the right switch, letting Amelia's instincts guide her.

"Start lever," said Jonah.

"Off," replied Dany, firmly, finally getting into the rhythm of it.

"Number 3 engine's going too," warned Dario. Sure enough, she noticed the gauge labeled with a "3" dropping as well.

"Shutdown number 3," she commanded; she could recall from Amelia's mind that a craft like this could still fly with only one of these engines running.

"No... wait!" blurted Dario, "no! 2 and 4 too! They've... all gone. All four engines have burnt out!"

The main lights in the cockpit flickered, and then went off, leaving only the small lights in some of the instruments glowing. At the same time, a strange silence descended over the place; now, without the constant droning of the engines, the only sounds were the heavy breathing of the three of them, accompanied by the muffled cries and murmurs from the passenger cabin behind them.

As Dany and her two companions looked on in horror and confusion, DAL Flight 19 suddenly became the world's largest and most expensive glider.


	5. Under Pressure

**Part V:**

 **Under Pressure**

The constant droning of the engines running was something that was always present in flight, something your ears eventually got used to, especially after having flown for years, let alone having done this route many times before. With the engines cut out, that familiar and reassuring sound was gone.

Jonah, as with his fellow flight crew, had gone through training before getting his pilot's license, so of course he had faced complete loss of engine power scenarios in the flight simulator before. But as far as he knew, he had never faced anything quite like this: not only were all four engines out, but they were out of contact with the ground, and the ghostly lights surrounding the plane continued to shimmer and sparkle, as if taunting them. It was like something out of some mad dream (or, more accurately, a nightmare).

Jonah tried to focus away from the windshield, and instead focus on the dashboard. One of the first things they teach you in training was that, contrary to popular belief, shutting off the engines doesn't suddenly cause the plane to just fall straight out of the sky, like a rock. As long as they had forward momentum, the wings would continue to generate lift and keep them aloft, though not for long. Without engine power, an airliner had a glide ratio of up to 15:1. They had just reached back up to flight level 360, or 36k ft above the sea, when their engines had flamed out. A quick calculation in Jonah's mind rounded that figure to 6 nautical miles, which meant that, optimally, they could go for another 90 nautical miles. He grimaced. At their current airspeed, they wouldn't make it to dry land; they would hit the ocean in maybe 20 minutes or so.

The main lights flickered and came back on. "APU engaged!" said Dario. That was mildly reassuring; they might be out on all four engines, but at least the auxiliary power unit was still operational, so they would still have enough power for lights, instruments, and the most critical hydraulic systems. More importantly, they would have the power they would need for what they were about to do next.

"Okay, restart engines!" commanded the Captain, hesitating a little, "Jonah, uh, you handle this. I'll... just keep flying the plane."

"Roger," nodded Jonah. He reached for the manual he kept in the seat pouch next to him. The booklets issued to all flight crews were supposed to contain all the appropriate procedures and checklists on what to do in a situation like this, though Jonah quietly wondered if there was more going on than a mere engine failure. He could hear from the rustling of paper behind him that Dario too had gotten his checklist out and open. "Restart drill, number 4 engine," began Jonah, "begin. Battery."

"Check, on," replied Dario.

"Cross-feed valves."

"Check, open."

"APU bleed."

"Check, on."

"Fuel pumps."

"Check, on."

"Pressure?"

"Check, nominal."

"Start valve."

"Check, open."

"Fire switch"

"Check, in."

"Engine ignition, on!"

Jonah couldn't hear anything, but he wanted to double check. "Anything?" he asked.

"No, negative," said Dario.

"Alright then, from the top," said Jonah. He coughed. "Battery."

"Check, on."

"Cross-feed valves."

"Check, open..."

The entire process took over a minute; a painfully slow and long one at that. As he read out each stage and Dario complied, he could not help but wonder if there was any way to expedite the whole process, though he also knew that procedures existed for a good reason.

 _Ding-ding_. Jonah nearly froze at that sound. _Cripes, what is it this time?_ , he grumbled to himself. This better damn well not be that... whatever it was, stalking them again.

"We're getting... pressure warning!" said the Captain, breathing heavily.

Of course. No wonder he was starting to feel a little light-headed. Without the bleed from their engines, there was nothing to replenish the air that was slowly seeping out of the cabin. He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself short of breath.

* * *

The shutdown of the engines hadn't escaped the notice of the passengers. An eery silence descended over the cabin, and persisted, even when the lights came back on. And the smell had gotten worse. Yes, not only could he smell his own emetic secretions, but above it all, Tyrone could also catch a whiff of the acrid stench of rotten eggs. He shuddered; there were only two things it could be - either someone had farted, or it was sulfur. He was honestly hoping it was the former, but from the thin wisps of fine dust he could see spewing out from the vents above the windows, it was probably the latter.

His head was still splitting, and now his ears were aching terribly. Tyrone swallowed, and his ears popped; that felt marginally better.

Somewhere in front of him, he saw one of the other passengers getting to her feet, flipping out, whimpering and crying about how they were all doomed.

"Ma'am, please, calm down," said a stewardess, walking over to her, "I'm sure that our captain is working on it."

"Here, let me handle this," said another passenger, approaching them; he looked to be an elderly man in a tidy suit, could have been a doctor or something.

"Mr. Lancaster! I hope you are not inconvenienced in the slightest," said a voice to his left. Tyrone turned his attention away from the scene unfolding in front of him, and turned to see another stewardess, standing next to him.

Tyrone looked up at her, and raised his eyebrow. _Lady, do I look alright to you?_ , he thought, bitterly. There was puke splattered all over his clothing, especially on his feet where he'd dropped the sick bag without sealing it properly. But she was holding a plastic bottle of water; Tyrone greedily nabbed it and began gulping it down. It was getting noticeably hot in the cabin, his throat itched badly, and the smoke had thickened. "What is... problem... with plane?" he coughed. "Are we all... going... _to die_?"

"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Lancaster, the captain is working on it as we speak," said the stewardess, smiling, though Tyrone see from the faint twitching around the ends of her mouth that it was a considerably forced one. Yeah, clearly, they were under instructions to stop a panic from breaking out. She continued, nodding: "um... yes! I'm sure the captain will have this all under control soon enough."

There was a rather loud and noticeable slapping sound from somewhere in front of him. Tyrone rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to answer glibly, but it came out as a whimper. He coughed, cleared his parched throat, and tried again, but was feeling short of breath.

All of a sudden, something fell out from above and landing right in front of him. Tyrone jumped, and nearly emptied his stomach again, now that it had something in it again to send back up. He looked. A cheap plastic-looking yellow cup bobbed at the end of a long, thin wire, with an equally cheap-looking plastic bag attached to it; the oxygen masks. It was kind of chilling actually to see it, slowly dangling there in front of him, looking like a hangman's noose, knowing that his life was about to depend on that scrawny plastic thing.

* * *

Dany tried to focus, but each passing minute, she found it getting harder and harder to breathe. Her ears were singing and her head was spinning. Once again, though, she could hear, well, no, she could _feel_ the voice of Lady Amelia in her mind, guiding her through the steps, just as had been drilled into this head by years and years of training and experience. _Swallow_... she gulped and felt a sting in her ears and a _crack_ , but after that, her hearing cleared and the pain subsided - somewhat. It was still hard to breath, and getting worse with each passing minute. _In event of sudden loss of cabin pressure_... "oxygen masks!" she gasped, and reached up, for the compartment where hers was being stored away. Jonah and Dario followed suit.

The device she pulled out looked bulky and awkward; a heavy grey-black mouthpiece attached to two strips of stretchy black cloth, connected to a long, thick flexible tube that snaked out of somewhere above her. Dany placed the mask over her nose and mouth. It fit awkwardly, clearly meant for someone with a different sized or shaped chin than hers, and it stank, but at least once she had pulled the straps over her head and started breathing, she found she could breathe a little more easily again. She looked to her right.

Dario had just finished strapping on his mask as well; he turned to face her, and gave a thumb's up.

Jonah, however, was a different story.

"Problem... mask..." wheezed Jonah's muffled voice, "go on... will try... fix... it..." His mask was on firmly and secured to his head, but evidently something else must have been wrong with it. He pulled it off and held it up to his eyes, trying to see if there was something blocking it. Dany could not see what was wrong with his mask, and neither, apparently, did Jonah, for he was just stared, blinking his eyes, as if not sure of what to do next.

Dany's heart sank. Watching Jonah sitting there, heaving and wheezing, struggling to figure out and quickly fix whatever was wrong with his mask... it was like watching him die, slowly and painfully. She couldn't bear it.

She looked at the altimeter. They were just now passing 30,000 feet ( _30,000 feet!_ The Great Pyramid of Meereen was 800ft high, but she wondered if even Drogon could fly that high; it's not like had a length of rope that long to measure how high she was flying last time she had ridden him). She could feel Lady Amelia speaking to her again, remembering now the things she had learned over her many years on this strange world... _aircraft cabins are pressurized for the passengers' comfort, to a pressure approximating that found at 8,000 feet altitude, though humans have been known to live, sleep, and function at as high as 20,000 feet. But anything above 26,000 feet is considered the "death zone" where the amount of oxygen is insufficient to support Human life_... okay, so must get below at least 26,000. And need Jonah, uh, _functioning_ , so... 20,000 feet? That sounded right... she looked again at Jonah. No, even at the rate they were currently descending, he might not make it. She would have to speed up the rate they were falling, but of course, that meant surrendering precious distance between them and the crashing waves of the ocean below.

 _Continue onwards, or descend?_ Dany could now feel the weight of the four bars on each of her shoulders, pulling down like they were solid gold.

Jonah was _not_ _Jorah_... that much was apparent. And yet, she found it hard to separate the kinship she felt towards First Officer Jonathan de Mormont, and for that swarthy, dark Bear Knight who, no matter what else she may have thought of him, had been her ever faithful travel companion, from the shores of Pentos, across the Dothraki Sea, to the Red Wastes, to Qarth, to the Bay Of Dragons and beyond. He had betrayed her, yes, had been in league with the enemy once, but 'twas he who had redeemed himself in her eyes when he always came back to her side, saved her life many a time and had literally gone to the ends of the world for her. And now, in her short time here, in this strange world, on this strange flying ship, and surrounded by strange people... it only reinforced that. He may not be Jorah, but it was certainly Jonah who had stopped her from slamming the rudder hard and putting the plane into a tailspin when she had first panicked upon arrival into this alien world. He had continued to fly the plane even when she was not feeling up to it, still reeling from the shock of her sudden arrival. And it dawned on her too that she could not restart the engines and land the plane without him. She just couldn't imagine doing it alone, or, at this point, with anyone else really.

"Hold on, Jonah," she said, quietly, tears in her eyes, "please, hold on. I'm... I'm taking us down."

"Captain?" asked Dario, "is that wise?"

Dany said nothing more, but gently pushed the yoke forwards. The plane's nose dipped downwards; the altimeter began to drop, while airspeed began to rise, rapidly, as the aircraft raced downwards, accelerating towards the ocean.


	6. Falling From The Sky

**Part VI**

 **Falling From The Sky**

29,000ft... 28,500ft... 28,000ft... 27,500ft...

"Captain, at this rate, we're not going to have much time left for restart," muttered Dario.

 _Then we'd better get it right the first time_ , thought Dany though she said nothing, trying to keep her mind focused on the altimeter. She breathed heavily, foul-smelling but oxygen-rich air from the mask filling her lungs, but she still felt light-headed and faint, and her ears stung. But for the first time since she had arrived on this world, she finally felt... _comfortable_?

Yes, it was hard to explain, but for the first time in what was probably only minutes but _felt_ like an eternity, she felt like she truly was _in control_. Flying an aircraft was not the same as flying on Drogon's back. There were all kinds of little procedures to follow, thousands of little switches and buttons and levers, hundreds of different little dials and gauges she had to be mindful of at all times, and much of the way she was supposed to act was dictated by rigorous and grueling training that she (or rather, that Captain Daniels) had had to endure over years. On the other hand, at the very least, she felt some odd comfort knowing that she had complete control of this vessel in her hands.

26,000ft...

 _We're out of the Death Zone_... she looked at Jonah. He was still heaving and huffing laboriously, though now that he could see what she was doing, he had stopped struggling with his mask, which was only wasting precious breath, and instead had sat back in his seat as calmly as he could. _Hold on, Jonah_ , she kept thinking to herself. _We're getting lower. Just please, hold on_.

25,000ft...

She kept her eyes half on the altimeter and half on the windshield. The strange lights that had surrounded the plane seemed to be grower dimmer and more dispersed and eventually stopped. They must have emerged from the bottom of whatever cloud that was, though it was still dark and she could not see the ocean.

In spite of her best efforts to stay focused, her mind began to drift. One moment, she was in the pilot's seat. The next, she could suddenly see... _she could see herself falling, just herself, dressed in her blue gown. The rest of the cockpit, Seven Hells, the entire plane too, had disappeared, and instead she was plummeting down towards certain death on the jagged rocks below, the winds lashing at her face. She opened her mouth and screamed. And that scream was answered by a great_ _ **ROAR**_ _from somewhere above her. Her eyes turned skywards in time to see an enormous black shadow, outlined against the sinister glowing green lights above, diving towards her_.

She gasped and sat back in her seat. She was back inside the cockpit, dressed in her captain's uniform, strapped into her chair and with her eyes focused on the controls.

22,000ft...

Dany began to pull back on the yoke - it was a struggle, trying to do it just right and not too suddenly. The hand-grips throbbed and shook violently in her hands, and the entire column felt heavy in her hands, as if actively resisting being pulled back.

21,000ft...

The tiny cross-shape on the attitude indicator was rising up back towards the horizon line. Next to that, the altimeter began to slow down. Next to that, the airspeed indicator continued to climb, crossing 400 knots.

20,000ft...

The plane completed its arc, leveling off. The attitude indicator now showed the tiny cross right on the horizon, and the altimeter had stopped. As she looked back up from the dashboard, she noticed that, for some reason, the strange lights too had ceased and the night sky outside had turned solid black.

"Thank... you..." wheezed Jonah, coughing profusely, "...shit... ugh! I needed that."

"I can't land this plane without you," she said; he might not realize just how true that statement was.

"Uh, guys?" interjected Dario, "that's all fine and dandy, but we're still four engines short and now with maybe ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops."

Jonah coughed again. "Right," he croaked, "let's get to it then."

"I'll take this," said Dany, "Jonah, you keep us level. Dario, from the top." She tried to recall, step by step, the ritual for summoning that elusive engine startup. "Battery."

"Check, on," replied Dario.

"Cross-feed valves," she continued with the incantations, as calmly and quietly as she could, though in her mind, she was actually shouting. _Come on, you great oaf!_ , she thought wildly, _come on! Seven bloody Hells!_

Visions came to her head again...

* * *

 _The lady dressed in blue robes continued falling from the sky. As the great shadow above her neared, she could see the gigantic head of a dragon, like that of some frikkin' Tyrannosaurus rex but even bigger, drawing up right beside her. Even in the darkness, she could tell the details in its face with clarity. The poor creature's face and neck and possibly the rest of its body too was covered in scars and fresh open wounds, bleeding profusely; its large yellow eyes betrayed a feeling of... fear? Pain? And whatever terror she had felt at seeing the beast for the first time was replaced with pity and sorrow for whatever it had had to endure to have inflicted such grievous wounds upon it._

 _The dragon craned its neck so as to maneuver its head right under the lady. She could see an elegantly carved leather saddle secured in place on the back of the beast's neck, and realized there and then that this wasn't some monstrous predator following its prey, but a loyal and gallant steed following its rider, even to the ends of the earth._

 _Instinctively, she reached out, and grabbed hold, and then with considerable strain and effort, pulled herself into the saddle..._

* * *

"Captain?" asked Dario, "Captain! Start valve open."

"Uh, right," she stammered, snapping back to reality. "Uh, fire switch."

"Check, in."

"Engine ignition, on!" said Dany, pulling on the switch labeled "4" that her mind was telling her must have been the right one. She didn't notice anything different. "Anything?"

"No, negative!" said Dario.

"Alright then, again! Battery."

"Check, on..."

* * *

 _The lady in blue was back in the saddle, her legs holding on tightly into the scaly back, but rider and dragon both were still in free fall, getting ever closer to the ground with each passing moment. The Lady's mind raced as she tried to figure out desperately what to do next. And then, in a moment of clarity, a name suddenly popped into her head._

 _"Drogon!" she whispered, quietly._

 _Even against the howling of the wind and crashing of thunder around them, she could tell (though how exactly, she was not entirely certain) that the beast had heard her, was now attentive and listening to whatever she had to say next._

 _And what came out of her lips next was odd, for they were words not in English, but in some strange language the words to which just happened to come to her mind as though she knew them already. Latin? She had studied that in secondary school, had forgotten most of it, but still knew enough to recognize the similarities, and also enough of the differences to know that this wasn't it. "Drogon! Kirimvose daor!" she declared, and looked up, "sesir kipi! Volarys!"_

 _It was all Greek to her, but whatever those words meant, it had a notable effect on the beast's behavior. He heeded her command; he was hurt, exhausted, frightened even of everything he had seen and encountered in these strange and cursed skies. But he had enough strength and resolve left in him that he obeyed his lady's request._

 _She could see the ground now, jagged rocks and ancient spires reaching up to them like spear points; any moment now, they would impale themselves upon them, or dash themselves to pieces on the ground. But at the last moment, he spread his great wings, and summoning whatever strength he had left, he pulled the two of them up from their dive..._

* * *

"Start valve!" she said, almost automatically.

"Check, open," replied Dario.

"Fire switch."

"Check, in."

"Engine ignition, on!"

There was a _**CLUNK**_ , followed by a low rumbling noise, and the entire cockpit shook.

Dany looked down at the sets of gauges marked "EPR" and "N1". The small needle on the two gauges for Number 4 had suddenly jolted from 0 to 1,000rpm, and was slowly rising.

She turned around and looked at Jonah and Dario. Both of them stared back at her. Time seemed to hold still for a moment. And then, both of them smiled.


	7. Final Approach

**Part VII**

 **Final Approach  
**

Dario couldn't believe it. With a ponderous but steady rumbling, the EPR and RPM gauges for number 4 began to climb. It was like the aircraft, like some enormous _living creature_ , had been slowly drowning to death, but now had just gasped and sputtered back to life.

"Engine 4 back online!" he announced, triumphantly.

"Hang on, we're not out of the woods just yet," cautioned Jonah.

"Right," said the Captain. "Dario, how far can we fly on one engine? Weight... uh... just assume fully loaded."

"Well, I can tell you already, we'll at least make it as far as the _crash site_ ," japed Dario as he flipped through his checklist, looking for the correct page. It was probably not the most appropriate thing to say right now, judging by the stern looks he was getting, but he supposed he just really needed to vent. "We can't climb on one engine alone, not fully loaded, but we can maintain altitude at full power, at least 'til the fuel runs out."

"Let's avoid full power," said Jonah, "there's no telling how much of a beating the engines took in that... whatever that was."

"Right now, I've got number 4 running at 6k rpm," said Dario, checking the gauges, "we're still going down, just not as fast as before." He also took a glance to check the airspeed and altimeter. In the time they had taken to restart just the one engine, they had fallen yet another vertical mile.

"Alright then, engine restart, number 1," said the Captain, as Dario noted, finally sounding like herself again, before she went all _loco_ and all this craziness had started. "From the top. Cross-feeds?"

"Check, open!"

Now, with one engine operable, the entire process was sped up considerably, since they could use bleed air from number 4 to restart the other turbines, instead of relying on just the backup generator. And sure enough, just like number 4, other surprises awaited them - pleasant surprises, for once.

"All engines back online!" declared Dario, as, one by one, the EPR and N1 gauges kicked back on; the lone rumbling of number 4 was now joined by a whole chorus. He could barely contain himself. "Haha! We are back in business!"

Judging from the sudden round of applause and cheers and cries of relief they could hear from the cabin, just barely over the roar of the starting engines, but present all the same, it seemed the passengers too shared in their euphoria.

"Boys, I say we put some distance between us and the ground," smiled the Captain, calmly pulling back the control column.

"Aye, you can say that again!" breathed Jonah.

As they climbed, however, it wasn't look before a familiar and unwanted sight returned to haunt them. Just as the altimeter had started to climb again and they had gone past 15k, Dario thought he heard Jonah curse. He looked up from his station in time to see a greenish spark flash past the windshield. It was followed by another. And another. And before long, the strange lights began again.

"Bloody 'ell!" spat Jonah.

A split second later, Dario's eyes raced back to his station as yet another warning light began flashing again. This time, though, he already knew what it was, as above the steady rhythmic drone of the engines, there came a most unpleasant sound. _Oh fuck, not again!_ , thought Dario, "Captain, number 3's surging again!"

"No. Not this time," declared the Captain, with cold, grim determination in her voice, "screw this, we're getting all Seven Hells out of here. Dario, engine shutdown, number 3." Dario wasn't sure what she meant by "Seven Hells" but the rest was obvious as she pushed the yoke forwards, and, with that, DAL Flight 9 began to descend once more.

* * *

"Dragon One Niner to Tower," said Jonah, "Dragon One Niner to Tower; mayday, mayday, mayday! Requesting emergency landing."

"Who is this?" barked the response, a gruff and annoyed voice, though to the crew, it was a _Godsend_ knowing that they were back in touch with the real world.

"Dragon One Niner," repeated Jonah, "declaring an emergency. We're flying on three engines; we have injured passengers and possible internal damage due to encounter with... uh, anomalous weather conditions. Over."

Pause.

"There is no Dragon One Niner scheduled in this area," replied the controller's voice. "Are you sure you have the right operating number?"

"Dammit, just give us a clearance!" fumed Jonah behind gritted teeth, losing his patience. "Please! We have a damaged jumbo jet with over 300 people onboard!" He stopped to catch his breath. "Sorry, over."

There was another pause.

"Dragon One Niner, we have you on primary radar, squawking 7700, heading 345, flight level 120, 310 knots. Please confirm."

"Affirmative," replied Jonah, "yes, that's us. Over."

"Thank you, Dragon One Niner. Your position has been confirmed. Please proceed to Papa Beacon, heading four-zero, and hold at level five-zero, at two-three-zero knots. I repeat: Papa Beacon, heading four-zero, hold at level five-zero. We'll inform you when runway 10R is clear. Over."

"Roger that. Uh... is Runway 10R at least three thousand meters? Over."

"I'm afraid we don't have three thousand meters," said the controller, "this is a regional airport. We have a maximum of two thousand, one hundred. I repeat, two-thousand, one-hundred. Over."

Jonah and Dany looked at each other. "Uh... tower, what are your current weather conditions? Over."

"Dragon One Niner: weather's clear with a light breeze from the north-northwest, five knots. Runway's dry. Over."

Jonah took a minute to think on this. He looked first to Dany, and then over to Dario. "We're sitting at a little over 85% maximum payload," he muttered to them, "we'll have to dump fuel."

"We can make it," said Dario, pulling out the minimum landing distance chart included with the manual. "And with some breathing room to spare. That is, of course, assuming conditions are as he said. But Captain's got the final word."

Jonah looked to Dany. "Yes," she replied, firmly, "let's do this."

Jonah nodded, and then clicked his headset back on. "Uh, tower, this is Dragon One Niner. 2,100 is acceptable, thank you. Over."

"Dragon One Niner, you are cleared to land, Runway 10R. Proceed to the Papa beacon and then descend to level 15. Over."

"Roger. Can we evacuate on the runway? Please. Over."

"Affirmative. You can evacuate on the runway. We'll have emergency services on standby. Over."

"Roger that. Thank you very much. Over."

"Godspeed, Flight Dragon One Niner. Over and out."

* * *

"So, you're saying that those strange lights we saw outside the window were... the cause of the engine troubles?" asked Dr. Harrison Semley.

"Yes," said Captain Daniels, timidly and earnestly, "look, uh, Doctor, I know this all sounds like... like some wild story we made up, like, like, like I was going mad. But... well, that's just what really happened."

Dr. Semley frowned, thinking hard on all that she had divulged to him over the last few minutes. On one hand, he didn't doubt that she was telling the truth. Captain Amelia Daniels was proudly flaunted by the airline as their fiery and strong-headed "poster girl", and she had spoken with a collected and confident tone when she had first welcomed them all aboard, and for most of the flight up until things had started going awry. And so to see her as she was now - quiet, meek, a little paler like she had just seen a ghost, and not to mention too all the little things that only doctors tend to notice like her tremor and breathing - it was all a complete 180 on her part. Moreover, the first officer and the engineer too both looked shaken, so clearly something must have happened.

On the other hand, though, Dr. Semley could tell that the captain was hiding something, that she wasn't disclosing to him the full extent of the story. Fair enough, trauma can do that to people, but given how often times the devil truly was in the details, whatever she wasn't disclosing to him could be of just as much, if not greater, importance that what she had. He decided he would investigate this matter further, but all in good time. There were more important matters to deal with first.

He sighed. "I believe you," he began, trying to reassure the flight crew, "but whatever caused all of this... mayhem, we can worry about after we've landed. What matters most right now is that we get back on the ground as soon and safely as possible."

"How bad is it?" asked the first officer. "I heard one passenger broke both legs."

"Aye," nodded the doctor, "young lad. Quite brave too; he didn't scream at all when I tended to him." ... _because I gave him a piece of leather to bite down on_ , thought Semley to himself, _I really must pack anesthetics in carry on next time_. "Several other passengers too, with broken bones, concussions, severe bruising, lacerations, all from that sudden dive you pulled. At least four passengers suffered asthma attacks from the smoke, though that seems to have dissipated now; I must say, it was a wise choice to bring the plane down to a breathable level as quickly as you did. And we also have a fellow in business who's severely dehydrated."

"Roger that," muttered the first officer. He checked his instruments. "Look, doctor, we're coming up on the beacon. We'll begin final approach in the next few minutes. Best get yourself seated, Doc."

Dr. Semley turned and began making his way back to his seat. But just before he stepped out and closed the cockpit door behind him, he took a moment to look back towards the crew. "Look, I just want to tell the three of you good luck; we're all counting on you."


End file.
